


Catching the Worm

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bottom Tony Stark, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: 'The early bird catches the worm,' Steve likes to say, as though it’s something profound. In response, Tony would very much like to say something snarky and lewd about who was catching whose worm, but he usually manages to keep his snarky lewd thoughts to himself. Usually.





	Catching the Worm

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into MCU fic writing! Frankly, never thought I'd be here, but the muse, she does what she wants. Just a bit of unbeta'd PWP, please be gentle.

It's early morning, Tony can tell without opening his eyes. He can tell because Steve, who likes early mornings, is awake and making a God-awful racket.

Okay, a ‘racket’ is not quantifiable and Tony, if pressed, will concede that the decibel level of the noise Steve is making is maybe not what most people would consider a racket. Maybe. But he is not trying to be especially quiet either, which is more to the point. Tony knows the difference: if Steve wants to be stealthy, he can be pretty damned stealthy. _This_—ostentatious yawning, exaggerated stretching, rolling around, taking Tony’s share of the covers—is Steve passive-aggressively letting Tony know that he thinks it’s time to wake up.

'The early bird catches the worm,' Steve likes to say, as though it’s something profound. In response, Tony would very much like to say something snarky and lewd about who was catching whose worm, but he usually manages to keep his snarky lewd thoughts to himself. Usually. Like, fifty-one percent of the time. He’ll snicker one hundred percent of the time, naturally, because snickering doesn’t count.

It comes down to a philosophical difference. To Steve, rising before the cock crows—Tony stifles another snicker—is a virtue. Tony, on the other hand, sees no particular merit in getting up early for its own sake. Sleeping in is neither a sin nor a moral failing. For that matter, he doesn’t consider working long hours as a virtue either, more a necessary evil—one that he’s well acquainted with, having put in more late nights and all-nighters in his workshop than he can count. Last night wasn’t one of those nights, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

Tony keeps his eyes shut. The jig is up, of course—his altered breathing pattern has already betrayed him—but if he is forced to rise at an outrageous hour, he wants it to be worth his while. There’d better be something worth getting up early for.

Steve spoons up against Tony’s back, his morning wood making its woody-ness known.

Well. That’s worth something, alright.

“Good morning,” Steve says, his breath tickling Tony’s ear. 

Tony feels a grin start to spread on his face. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be a good one.

Steve tentatively, almost shyly, rubs his cock along the crack in Tony's ass—Little Stevie asking if he can come in and play, as though Tony purposefully pushing his ass back and making that needy sound deep in his throat isn't permission enough. 

So he says "Yes," his voice rough with more than sleep. “Yes. C’mon, Steve.”

He has to wait, though, while Steve strips out of his t-shirt and boxers. Tony rolls over to watch. A light pink flush appears on Steve’s cheekbones, as though he’s embarrassed by Tony’s admiring gaze. And okay, maybe the fact that the gaze is less admiring than it is lecherous has something to do with Steve’s self-consciousness. Not that Tony cares about the reason, only the result. The bashful look is flat-out adorable and Tony congratulates himself for putting it there. 

Turnabout is fair play, though. Steve’s eyes heat with their own fair share of lechery as he takes in the evidence of Tony’s growing arousal. Tony, not self-conscious in the least, shucks his tank top and shorts and strikes a come-hither pose. “Draw me like one of your French girls,” he says, breathless and coy. Steve merely rolls his eyes as he reaches for the lube. Which, in hindsight, is a good thing—Tony doesn’t know what he would have done if Steve had left in search of his sketch pad. 

When his preparations are complete, Steve leans down and kisses Tony hard. “Turn over,” he orders. It’s the same tone of command he uses when calls the team to action. _Avengers, assemble!_

Tony smiles and obeys. 

He groans as Steve breaches him and Steve murmurs in his ear, low and soothing. But Tony doesn't want soothing. He growls in protest and thrusts back, reaching behind and grabbing Steve’s ass, a wordless demand to get down to business.

It’s not subtle, but it’s effective. Steve chuckles, then settles down for some no-nonsense fucking.

As he’s being literally pounded into the mattress, Tony vaguely wonders how Steve knows exactly how much force to use, where to draw the line between just right and too much; after all, sometimes the man doesn’t know his own strength, look at what he does to the custom extra-heavy-duty punching bags Tony gets for hi—

But then clever fingers wrap around his dick, the grip just right and not too much, and Tony has zero room in his brain to wonder at anything except how amazing it feels, how perfectly they fit together. They’re two pieces of a two-piece puzzle: assembling, becoming one.

Steve works his magic, suspending Tony between the pleasure of his hand and his cock. He leans down, licks a wet, wicked stripe up Tony’s neck. Tony feels a sharp sting as Steve sucks an honest to God hickey into his skin, marking him at the juncture of his shoulder and throat.

“Dirty pool, Rogers,” Tony says, but the words are panted out between ragged breaths and probably aren’t coherent. Steve is, for all intents and purposes, immune to hickeys—they fade away almost instantly—but fuck it, Tony is going to figure out a way to pay him back. It will no doubt take many hours of rigorous trial and error, but hey, it’s for science. He manages to make a mental note to work out the details later, although the effort it takes for him to put a pin in that thought probably costs him eight of the nine functioning brain cells he has left. Ah, what the hell. His future self will thank him for sure. He can always grow more brain cells, right? Or clone them, or special order them, or whatever. He’s Tony-fucking-Stark, he’ll nanotech—

And then Steve does this slick move where he pulls out, flips Tony over, and gets right back in, all without fumbling around or even breaking his rhythm. It’s impressive, frankly; plus Steve’s gotten really good at it, the bastard. Tony would complain, just to be on-brand, but before he can form the words Steve goes from fifth gear to supersonic.

Words are gone. Tony—thinking, reasoning Tony—is gone. All that’s left is _feeling_ Tony, nothing but nerve endings and sensory receptors. The world has narrowed down to Steve, in him and around him; he can’t see beyond the confines of their bedroom, can’t hear anything except the sounds of their lovemaking and the pounding of the blood rushing in his ears.

“God, Tony,” Steve says through clenched teeth, and it sounds equal parts debauched and reverent. “I don’t know how you… so good, what you give me. So sexy, you gorgeous—” 

Tony surges up and cuts him off with a bruising kiss. He savors the moan that Steve can’t suppress, vibrating through his parted lips. He sucks at Steve’s tongue, which willingly delves deeper into Tony’s mouth, plundering and greedy. It’s so damned hot, Tony threads his fingers into Steve’s hair and holds the two of them there, locked together, for as long as he can manage. 

Finally Tony throws his head back to pull in badly-needed oxygen. Steve is staring at him, and he looks almost bereft at the broken contact. Which is beyond ridiculous, seeing as how Steve is still balls-deep in him, but Tony gets it. He blurts out the only thing his final remaining brain cell can think of to say:

“I love you.” 

Steve gasps and comes, and Tony does the same.

  


* * *

Steve being who he is and Super Soldier Serum doing what it does, it's not long at all before little Stevie is ready for Round Two. Tony may not be Captain America, but he _is_ Iron Man (and he's Tony-fucking-Stark), so yeah, almost there, just give him a sec—

But Steve simply wraps his arms around Tony from behind, buries his nose in Tony’s hair, breathes in, and sighs contentedly. 

Dear God, the man wants to _cuddle_.

And Tony....

Tony is surprisingly okay with that. 

After all, it’s early yet, he’s got the time. Even if he didn’t, well… cuddling with _Steve_? Hell yeah, he’d make the time. But first—

Tony turns, shifts position so that they're facing each other. 

“Tired of always being the little spoon, Rogers,” he says as he makes himself comfortable against Steve’s chest. Tony smiles as Steve’s laughter rumbles under his cheek.

“I love you too, Tony.”


End file.
